


Choices

by I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Alternative Pain Management, Child Unhurt, Child Witnessing Death, Child in a warzone, Cultural Differences, Deathfic, Ends Before I Usually End Them, Explosion Wounds, Eye Trauma, Gen, Innocents of Ryloth AU, Not Canon Cannon Wounds, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:18:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning/pseuds/I_Gave_You_Fair_Warning
Summary: Because in Innocents of Ryloth, when that cannon is aimed for Obi-Wan and Numa, he curls forward as if to shield her from a fripping cannon blast at point blank range. It's instinct. It's beautiful.





	Choices

 

The explosion knocked wind and sight clean out of Obi-Wan, left him clutching at the ground, nausea and pain overwhelming him.

A high-pitched whine in his ears left him wondering if  _this_ time he'd go deaf.

He tried to push himself to his knees, found his limbs weren't obeying all that well.

And then tiny hands were tugging at him, surprisingly strong, helping him to kneel. Vision came back, with a thousand tiny black dots marring it.

“Numa,” he rasped as he recognized the thin Twi'lek child.

He couldn't hear his voice. But he did hear metallic laughter, alarmingly similar to that which haunted his dreams.

Obi-Wan turned his head to the sound.

His eyes widened as he stared down the barrel of a tank, the laughter coming from the tactical droid operating it.

He had no strength to throw the child. His legs wouldn't allow him to  _stand_ let alone  _run._

He shoved Numa to the ground, covering her with his body as best as he could, and drew the Force tight around them as reality seemed to twist in his mind,  _warning—_

He grit his teeth and closed his eyes—

Numa was strangely silent and without tears beneath him—

Massive force slammed into his side, skidding him and the child he held close across the ground, then pushing  _through_ his Force bubble, flipping him up and over, tumbling him against the unforgiving stone while sending metal into or past him, leaving gashes behind, or not leaving at all.

Everything went oddly still for a moment, a familiar threat of unconsciousness. He succumbed, only to jolt awake again.

Everything—  _everything_ hurt. The now-broken bones. The third-degree burns. The shrapnel still embedded in his muscles. The gaping lacerations. His insides.

His eyes.

He couldn't see, and  _dear Force above_ did they burn.

He twisted against the ground, breath shivering from his lips.

There was screaming somewhere. Not the screaming of death, but the screaming of  _fury._ Of murder.

Perhaps the unarmed villagers attacking the tactical droid, since  _it_ was screaming too, in agony and fear.

Something stung his neck and the familiar buzz of a scanner followed.

“Easy, General. It'll take a moment for the painkillers to kick in.”

So Obi-Wan waited, trying to still the urge to writhe, the thought that if he shifted position, surely some of the agony would fade. At least from the broken limbs, if nothing else.

But every movement  _lied._ A half-second of lessening of the pain, only to send it rushing back with full strength, leaving him to try adjusting again, and again, and again—

_May as well lie still._

But those half-tastes of hope kept on with their vicious sweetness, and he followed.

The agony was just too much, otherwise.

He tried to ask about Numa, wasn't sure he succeeded.

“The kid is safe, General,” assured one voice.

“The hypo should be kicking in,” fretted another.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth, found his voice to be raspy, but  _present_ this time as he offered, “There is some numbing of some of the sensations.” He was grateful—  _truly—_ but he needed  _more_ relief. It wasn't enough. 

There was something very, very wrong inside him. It triggered all his panic buttons in his brain, making him want to  _do_ something.

But surely— surely the medic knew. He'd do what needed to be done.

Obi-Wan just needed to lie  _still._

But it felt like every second, life was walking away from him, and if he could just grab it, make it  _stay—_

“What do you mean  _he's not going to make it_ ?” a voice half-wailed, half-raged. A clone's.

Obi-Wan's heart leaped into his throat.

But... but  _Anakin wasn't here._ He was supposed to die by Anakin's side. At least say  _goodbye—_

A hand gripped his shoulder. It hurt and Obi-Wan whimpered, but over that he heard Cody choking out an apology.

Obi-Wan tried to make his mouth work again, but it refused. Frustration flooded him, along with grief. Cody needed to know this  _wasn't his fault—_

The only fault lay at the hands of the company that  _created_ the tactical droid, and in the hands of the Separatist leaders who thought turning them loose against  _living beings_ was somehow a decent thing to do.

A shriek escaped him, simply because the pain wasn't  _leaving_ and every second it remained it seemed  _heavier—_ maybe not  _worse,_ but it was eroding his control and his  _mind_ and dear Force, make it  _stop._

“Commander,” a Ryloth accent spoke, “in our culture, we do not believe anyone should die alone. Will you allow us to thank him for saving our Numa?”

Dear Force. He was going to die here.

He didn't  _want_ to die  _here._

He tried to reach for Anakin in the Force, but the painkillers made his connection fuzzier to grab hold of, and it slipped through his fingers. Was that  _him_ moaning, sounding like a wounded animal—?

A warm hand settled on his shoulder.

Another two on his upper arm.

Down his arm, down his leg, his feet— his head—

He couldn't see them, couldn't even sense them, but the villagers they'd come to save—

They were  _here._

Wetting their hands in his blood, refusing to look away, though the sight of him had to be revolting and painful.

Not alone.

He didn't need the Force to feel their solidarity. Their care.

Their thanks and sorrow and courage.

Beautiful people.

If he had to die— they were worth it.

Thin fingers grabbed his hand, trembling and squeezing so  _tight._

At first he gripped back, Numa was  _safe,_ she was  _alive—_

And then he realized she must be seeing his suffering, seeing his hideous wounds.

_I don't even know what happened to my eyes._

“Waxer,” he garbled through an uncooperative throat and swollen tongue, “get her out of here. She shouldn't have to see.” He switched to Twi'leki to add, “Numa, go with the kind brother Waxer.”

“ _No!_ ”

And when someone tried to draw her away, she clung tighter to Obi-Wan's hand.

An older voice murmured in Twi'leki, “Let her say her thanks.”

_No. No child should experience death so close._

But his voice no longer worked. He felt another sting against his neck, recognized it to be the clones trying to provide what comfort  _they_ could.

He found he actually preferred the hands.

_Strange._

But the hands warded off the chill of despair the pain drugs could not.

There was a reason for his death. He'd purchased life for these others.

_And I won't go alone._

He turned his head, bit down on the sleeve of his tunic, desperate to not scream in front of Numa.

He tried to still his writhing as well.

If he faced this with calm endurance, perhaps it would scar her  _less_ than it already would. He had no doubt this could get  _worse—_

If Qui-Gon had screamed, at the end, Obi-Wan wasn't sure he could have borne it.

He brushed his thumb over tiny knuckles as the end closed in.

 

 


End file.
